


Transcendence

by ClementineStarling



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Demonic Possession, Dom/sub, Eroto-comatose lucidity, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rituals, Satanism, Sex Magic, sub!Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwood compels Coward to take part in an arcane ritual; Coward obliges despite his objections and finds his world turned upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transcendence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally meant to be a follow-up to Study. Has been catching dust for a while. It turned out pretty weird, but what did I expect?  
> I can't think of anything else I should warn for... maybe fasting/food-related strangeness and drug use? idk, B/C-fic are usually trigger-bombs of the highest order. I suppose everyone who's here is aware of that?!
> 
> Also be advised that reading this may add to your fic-debt. :P

“But you, you are not, I know you aren't--”  
Coward stammers, then leans closer, squints at the notes. His fingers are trailing over the words, as though that helped him to better understand their meaning, but the letters are blurring before his eyes. It's the dim light, he tells himself, the stuffiness of the room that makes him dizzy, the heat of Blackwood's hand against the small of his back, not the text itself. Not this scripture that calls for despoilment, debauchery, sin, sin against everything that is right and true and just.

“It doesn't matter. Innocence is not a requirement here,” Blackwood says, his voice calm – how can it be so calm in view of these outrageous demands? Coward sees flashes of it in his mind, and everything inside him screams blasphemy, sacrilege, treason! No one must be allowed to touch him this way, not a soul, he himself would cut their hands off, gouge their eyes out merely for seeing his lord like that.

“Do you think you can do it?”, Blackwood asks, and it's not really a question. But how could he obey such a command, Coward thinks, how on earth?!

__

They prepare for the ritual with the same diligence as usual, and Coward tries not to dwell on what he'll have to do, lest his hands shake and he would ruin the symbols he has to draw. It does not help that he must read the corresponding incantations for each glyph, each sigil, and it feels as if the book burns his fingers and the words sear the tip of his tongue. 

Still time passes too quickly.

At the designated hour there is a knock on the door. It echoes through the hollow silence of the room, or perhaps the hollowness is inside Coward; the apprehension carved all emotion from him, left him empty and numb. But Blackwood knows, as he always knows, and before he turns to answer the door, before they begin in earnest, he gives him one last encouraging look. “Do not doubt, Daniel”, he says, and the trust in his voice burns into him like smooth, sweet spirits. And it does help, trickles into him with amber certainty. Coward bites his lip, straightens himself. He can do this. He must. 

When Blackwood returns with the tray he is changed, not at all his usual self anymore, not the man who commands the attention of a room with one glance, one casual wave of a hand. He doesn't look at Coward as he walks towards him, keeps his eyes downcast, demurely veiled by the dark lashes, all self-assurance gone from his demeanour. It is so strange to see him like this, as a servant, a slave – his slave. A thought so forbidden, it would make the breath stutter in Coward's chest, if it weren't for his task, his sacred duty; he cannot allow himself to stumble.

He unclenches his fists, smooths them out against his thighs and sits back in his chair as the ritual requires, while Blackwood kneels down before him, offering the food as a first sacrifice. It's a simple meal, white bread, fried meat, cut into bite-sized pieces and Coward recalls he is supposed to use his fingers. Gingerly he picks up a small chunk of meat, not hot anymore but still pleasantly warm, its scent most alluring, delicious and spicy, and puts it into his mouth, then nearly moans with surprise. It is so tender it positively melts on his tongue. He takes another bite and this time he watches Blackwood as he lifts it to his lips, observes the bob of his Adam's apple, a dry, hungry swallow, and remembers that Blackwood has not eaten for three days in preparation for this night.

He is inclined to hurry, but the rules of the ritual do not allow for such clemency. He must relish the meal as the scripture dictates, take the preceptive time. Every step is written down, here at least, in the very beginning. It is not his choice to do this, and it is not for his pleasure. And yet he does not avert his eyes from Blackwood, observes his reaction to the last detail, every twitch of muscle under the olive skin, the way he grinds his teeth, how the vein swells in his temple, the arms tremble, just the tiniest amount, from holding the tray. But he studies himself no less closely. He marvels at the sensation of sympathy welling up in his chest, the wish to ease Blackwood's ordeal, and starts to comprehend the full scope of his role, the extent of his own burden: to play his part and nothing more. He may not stray from the path the ritual sets, regardless his own desires.

Once he has picked up the last morsel from the tray, Blackwood sets it aside with what might be a hint of relief, but otherwise does not move an inch. He stays on his knees and for a moment it escapes Coward what might be the reason, but then he remembers and he raises his fingers shining with grease, and runs them over Blackwood's lips that open eagerly, tongue darting out to lap up the traces of spice and oil and meat juice. And oh, how greedy he is, sucking his fingers into the wet warmth of his mouth, and he wonders whether he has imagined the low groan vibrating in Blackwood's throat at the taste of his skin. 

Coward has been made aware by the scripture of the pleasure he himself will experience. There have been instructions how to concentrate, to abate his own need, but it has not prepared him for the  
rush of power that follows the expected spike of arousal; it washes over the odd twist in his stomach, a warm wave of something more potent, transferred by the venom of Henry's saliva. 

He let's him suckle at his fingers for a while, enjoys the wet, reverent curl of tongue around them, the promise unmistakable, waits until there can't possibly be any trace of food left before he withdraws his hand, and Henry, without thinking, it appears, chases after it, as if reluctant to let go. Such an endearing slip in composure. 

“Get the wine”, Coward says, forcing himself to remember the proper order of steps in this charade of the holy communion. To his own astonishment, his tone is remarkably steady and betrays nothing of the nervousness slithering in his belly. 

The ritual demands for Coward to take the first sip. Lush, rich, drug-infused the potion lies on his tongue, too spicy to be entirely pleasant, but its effect unfolds instantaneously, an assertive warmth settling inside him. It's a special concoction, tailored to the requirements of the ritual – not the same that Blackwood will drink from his hand though, for their roles in this are entirely different. 

He takes the second goblet, puts it to Blackwood's lips, tilts it. The angle is too steep, the fluid comes gushing forwards like a waterfall, too much to swallow, and red, blood-red is spilling from Blackwood's mouth, running down his chin and throat. For a split second Coward fears Blackwood will reprimand him for his clumsiness, at least respond with a mockingly arched eyebrow, but when nothing of the sort happens, he remembers their game. He rests his left hand against Blackwood's jaw and raises the cup to his lips again. “Drink up,” he says, and Blackwood complies. Tries to swallow as much as he can, although it is still too much at once, and when the cup is finally empty, a good deal of the wine stains his robes, his chest, makes Coward want to paint him in it, and in blood too. He follows the streaks with his fingers, rubs the fluid into the skin, finds Henry leaning into his touch again.

“You like that don't you,” he whispers, somehow still surprised.  
But slowly the potion must be taking effect, Blackwood is burning up already, and when Coward lifts his head by the slightest pressure of his fingers against his jaw, his eyes are glazed with fever. 

He remembers, it is still Henry, feral, passionate Henry, with nails like claws and teeth of a predator, ever consuming, devouring, who now kneels so obedient, so tame before him, and the notion arouses him beyond all reason, throbs in his veins with religious fervour. Now this creature is his and his alone, to do with as he sees fit, and he grabs the smooth silky hair and yanks violently.

Henry falls against him, his face nuzzling into the fabric of his trousers, a position reversed, perverted, Coward thinks, but not per se unfamiliar. He did not come to Blackwood's bed an innocent, he was well versed in the flavours of carnal desire and he knows the pleasures one can find in another man, and all the more so if he is dangerous, a low-born thug or a cold-blooded criminal, it's a thrill to have him surrender to this... service. And who could be more perilous than Lord Henry Blackwood himself? And whose lips would be sweeter around his cock than Henry's?

He has pleasured him with his mouth before of course, and expertly so, but never like this, never on his knees and his head dragged forwards, Coward's hands almost cruel in his hair as he is holding him steady, and the length of his cock choking him, relentless, until Henry's breathing becomes ragged, a struggle for air in desperate gasps, and soon the animal-twitch of muscles betrays a hardly suppressed flutter of panic. 

“It's what the ritual demands”, Blackwood said at his initial hesitancy, “and you will treat it like an order issued by your lord, for that is what it is, do you understand?” Blackwood was oddly gentle then, despite the gravity of the commands he whispered, hushed and hot into Coward's ear between tender kisses.“You must take me, exhaust me to my very limits, without reprieve, without mercy. Drive me to the very edge of insanity, to this state of mind in which prophets dwell, neither asleep nor waking.”

Coward is meant to use him, reduce him to a creature devoid of all reason, cleansed, a vessel for the magnificence of truth. 

__

The spell they wove is two-headed as Janus; only together they are lock and key. The knowledge is pulsing in his blood, the take-take-take of his own heart-beat like a war-drum in his ears as he binds Henry, wrists and ankles, cock and balls. Spreads him out to be used by the demon living in his own skin, that mindless power who has promised to Henry for a taste of his body, has promised to pour all of his wisdom into his soul. But before this can happen he has to be prised open, torn apart to be filled with truth.

Coward thinks he is weeping as the thrusts into him, tears of blood. But perhaps the sad little creature that is truly him, beneath the devil's power, just mustered the last bit of resistance and clawed at his eyes, not to see what must happen.

The drug is beetle-black in Henry's gaze, his pupils wide. Coward wonders if it is fears he sees, but no, it can't be, or rather the razor-sharp being inside him doesn't care. It just wants its sacrifice. The heat and tightness that's to be traded for arcane secrets.

Coward's tongue is a snake as it slithers over Henry's skin, tasting salt. Sweat, tears, blood?

He pushes into him, frenzied. Chasing something. He doesn't comprehend what it is, he cannot see it clearly. It evades him with every thrust, yet he knows it's not just his climax but something else. Something more refined. He claws at Henry's flesh to get it out of him, digs his fingers into his hips, bites at his shoulder, his chest, at his nipples, heedless his moans and shivers. He will tear it out of his chest if he has to.

Henry has squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps he cannot stand to look at Coward as he burns with the dark fire of hell. Perhaps he still likes this. It appears as though he likes it. He moves with him, as much as his bonds will allow. His cock is still hard, but that may be due to the magic and the lace wound around it. He has no choice in this. Not anymore. None of them has.

Inside Coward's skin the beast stretches, grows until Coward feels as though he must split at the seams, burst open to reveal his new demon-self. He is so close, so very close. Under him, Henry squirms and writhes and groans, eyes still closed. 

Orgasm hits like a wave that pulls him under, but just before he nearly passes out the beast allows him a glimpse and what he sees its marvellous. To claim such a prize as a piece of Henry's soul is more rewarding than the simple pleasure of the act. It is even better than feeding on his submission. It's such a sweet, sweet sensation, poisonous and treacle-dark, black as night and oblivion.

__

When he comes to again, he is himself, just himself. Or maybe not entirely. Because he isn't mortified when he realises Henry is still shaking under him, but strangely smug. Satisfied. The demon is but a dream lingering inside him, yet present enough to shield him from the cruel truth of what he's just done. It does take a while to sink in, and when it has, he tears himself away from Henry, out of him, despite the efforts of sweat and semen, tears and blood that want to keep them stuck together, and Henry moans, half pain, half desire. 

It is the potion, Coward reminds himself. It has planted surrender into Henry and cruelty into him, and they are mere slaves to its magic. Henry explained it to him before, all of it, but he'd just laughed. “What do you take me for? I am not an animal.” Oh how wrong he had been!

Coward pads over to the washing-stand, fetches the basin and the cloth, Henry placed there an hour before, or two, or three? He can't say how much time has passed, and he tries not to think about it, just takes up the cloth and dips it into the water and begins to wash away the traces of his sin from Henry's body. 

And Henry trembles like a leaf and it does take quite a while until Coward understands the reason. While the effect of the potion is fading inside him, the spell broken by his climax, Henry is still firmly in its grasp, and he will remain so, as long as the ritual isn't brought to its proper conclusion.

Coward sets the cloth aside and trails his fingers over the bruises blooming under Henry's skin. He knows how to worship this body, how to soothe the ache and prolong the pleasure. Keen to atone himself he sets to work.

__

Henry's skin shines golden in the light of the candles, shimmers with a silk sheen of sweat. “Close,” he warns in a voice that is so broken, so breathless, so much more of a moan than a proper word, it is utterly eerie. 

Coward lets go, only watches how Henry's cock jerks, desperate for the lost friction, its head dripping, slick and wet, observes how his limbs tremble, the tension wound tight in muscles and tendons, all animal reflex where usually he is so composed, so controlled. Now he thrashes in his bonds like a madman, head tossing and turning, spitting words and moans and curses, his cock swollen to a purplish red, a strange thing of beauty.

He is delirious, half-awake, half-dreaming, and Coward is to keep him there, on the threshold of sleep and release, hovering on the edge, for whatever vision may find him there and penetrate his torn-up mind.

He waits until the spasm in Henry's body have subsided before he begins anew, wraps his fingers around the swollen flesh and strokes, thorough, slow pulls that let Henry writhe and whimper, a sight and sound that make it nearly impossible for Coward to control himself; he longs to fill him up with his cock, thrust deep into this sacred vessel – but it's too late for that now, he cannot allow Blackwood the chance for release, not when he has come so close to clairvoyance. 

Instead he withdraws his hand, and Henry positively whines at the loss, bucks his hips in frustration, cock weeping, bones and sinew straining against the skin as if to burst through it, and he begs, an ongoing prayer of “please, please, oh please”, more like a mantra than coherent words, but Coward only laughs and trails his fingers over the hot plumpness of Henry's balls, a caress that invokes even more of a feverish shiver. When his fingers reach the sensitive rim of Henry's hole, dip inside, brush against that spot within him, Coward fears, the restraints won't hold much longer, so violently does Henry struggle against them. 

The longer this goes on, the less he resembles a being endowed with reason, his breathing is harsh, chopped, his lips split under the sharpness of his teeth, he is dissolving, his spirit fading, passing over to another realm, his eyes are glassy already, blind to everything around him. Coward knows this is supposed to happen, and yet-- and yet he is afraid he could lose him to lunacy, a Sybil's affliction. 

He grasps Henry's cock again, almost hot as coals against his fingers, throbbing with blood, he twists his hand, and Henry groans, a strangled, beastly noise, his stomach muscles spasm as if coming apart under the skin, his pupils blown wide, black as the night that has seized what remains of his soul. He is shaking now, his whole body quivering, worse than before, and Coward lets go, the cock jerking, leaking a steady thread of clear fluid, waits until Henry stills again, almost asleep, almost at peace, before he repeats his ministrations.

“Please,” Henry whispers, but Coward can't grant him this wish. 

__

The moment comes when Henry seems so submerged in his dream world, Coward fears he will never escape it but will forever be lost wandering the shores of Lethe. His eyes are open, though glazed over, opaque not shining anymore. His cock is still hard as an iron rod, and despite Coward's best efforts to finally make him come and thereby break the spell, his skills fail him utterly. He has attempted all tricks, tried all ploys he could think of, but nothing worked. Neither his fingers, nor his mouth, nor his hole. For a while, Henry's limbs still twitched in reaction to the pull of his hand, but the responses were getting ever weaker, and the dread began to settle in Coward's stomach. 

Now he is desperate. He is racking his brain for the mistake he must have made, the slip of tongue, an imperfection in drawing the sigils but can think of none. He was meticulous. Perhaps it was the demon who tricked them? But it had been inside him, had shared so many of its raw emotions – would he not have felt any ill intention? 

Whatever it was, they have failed. He has failed. He waited too long and now Henry is crumbling away, his mind falling apart under his hands like ashes and dust. 

Coward has given up any shred of hope, just gone on with the movement of his hand, because he could not bear to stop, when finally he succeeds. Henry spills himself over his fingers, in an orgasm without the violent throes, the tsunami-power of release, Coward expected. It happens suddenly, without warning. It's as though he has indeed been filled with something and is now overflowing with it, like a pot that's been standing in the rain, gathering water for hours, droplet by droplet, until at last it is full to the brim. Henry comes like this, quiet, serene, the tension leaking from him in long, watery gushes of semen. 

Coward keeps stroking him through it, his sight blurred with tears of relief. 

When Blackwood opens his eyes, they are clear and bright. 

“Thank God, you're all right”, bursts from Coward's lips, then, after a second glance at Blackwood's strange expression, he asks: “What is it, Henry, what have you seen?”

“Death,” Blackwood says with a voice still coming from the great beyond. He grasps for his hand, the grip of his fingers strong as ever. 

Coward leans closer to better hear the words as they fall from Blackwood's mouth like a prophecy: “Death is only the beginning.”


End file.
